


On the Northern Mountains, an Echo of Your Name

by DachOsmin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Betrayal, M/M, Pining, Politics, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 20:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: It’s as old a tale as the death and rebirth of the sky: the unfaithful uncle who plots against his brother’s son. But as Temin stares up at him, Savadai knows with steadfast certainty that he would give his life for this child if the gods asked it of him.He does not expect that one day they will face each other down from opposite ends of a battlefield. There are many things he does not expect.





	On the Northern Mountains, an Echo of Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



Savadai meets his nephew for the first time in the twilight of summer, when the falcons fly over the steppes to their winter nests in the south.

Savadai is on the cusp of his twentieth year and blessed with an embarrassment of riches. He is a proud son of the Marakhai tribe. He is the king’s only brother and his most valiant general, recently returned from the field to celebrate the birth of his brother’s first child. He bears twelve cedar chests of gold and myrrh and amethyst for the new prince.

Temin is seven days old, and has just opened his eyes for the first time.

From the way his brother coos in wonder, Savadai wryly concludes that the babe’s smile is more precious than any hoard of gold.

Even besides the babe King Khortun is in high spirits; his marriage to Temin’s mother; a princess of the Seljuni, ended a decades long war and has brought an armistice to the southern reaches of the steppes. Temin means peace in the old tongue.

Savadai shies away when Khortun offers him the child to hold. His hands were made for swords and bowstrings; how does one hold a baby?  What if he drops him? But Khortun laughs away his protests and thrusts the babe into his arms and Savadai is helpless to do anything but marvel at this tiny human his brother has brought into the world. He wonders at the pale glint of Temin’s eyes and the golden curls of his hair- exotic gifts from his mother.

It’s as old a tale as the death and rebirth of the sky: the unfaithful uncle who plots against his brother’s son. But as Temin stares up at him, Savadai knows with steadfast certainty that he would give his life for this child if the gods asked it of him.

He does not expect that one day they will face each other down from opposite ends of a battlefield. There are many things he does not expect.

***

They meet again in passing as the years tumble over: at victory celebrations and festivals as Savadai’s army sweeps across the steppes at his brother’s command.

Savadai has little attention to spare for Temin in the earlier years; he’s just a child to dandle on his knee as he talks with Khortun, then a youth whose hair he ruffles with a fond smile. Temin has other siblings: brothers and sisters by Khortun’s other wives and concubines. But if he is honest with himself, Temin remains his favorite, and he returns from every campaign anticipating the boy’s smile. He brings him ivory horses from Kissel-Kama and amber ear-drops from the Loushan Pass. And perhaps he should have seen the future reflected in the way Temin stares up at him like he’s a conquering hero from the sagas.

Savadai doesn’t really get to know Temin until the boy turns sixteen, and Khortun sends him to train with him as a page.

Savadai has spent the intervening years adding scars to his body and victory ribbons to his cape, and is now comfortably in command of the garrison at Otukai Pass. He welcomes the prince to Otukai in early spring, when the steppes are a riot of wild aster blooms brilliant beneath an endless blue sky.

He is struck by Temin from the moment he sees him. The boy has grown long of limb and broad of chest- he will do well in the training ring.

But beyond simple martial skill, there is a fire to him that makes Savadai catch his breath. He sits his horse well, with the regal mien of one born to rule. And his hair is golden in the morning light. His face lights up when he sees Savadai, and he inclines his head in a slight bow. “Well-met, uncle. I am honored to enter your service.”

He can already tell that this boy will make Khortun so proud; that he will be a king they sing songs of, one day far from now. He bows in return. “The honor is mine, nephew.”

They ride side by side into the keep. Savadai knows without looking that his soldiers are staring at the boy- of course they are, with that hair? And there will be mutters over cups in the night, and again in the morning as the men go about their drills. Never mind that the Seljuni lands are a full week away by swift falcon, in the shifting sands of the south. Never mind that King Khortun’s treaty with the southerners has held and held and held, ever since the King married a Seljuni princess and Temin was born with his mother’s golden hair.

Steppe memory is a long-lasting thing, and ill-feelings are burned into the marrow of horsemen’s bones even after the rise and fall of the seasons. There are still men in his army that have fought there, sacrificed their blood to the greedy southern sand for peace.

The first night, Temin serves as a cupbearer at the high table. It is more than the Savadai usually bothers with- they are hardened men, the lot of them, and can certainly pour their own ayrag unless they’ve already had several tankards of the stuff.

Temin’s hands are steady as he lifts the ewer; the bend of his wrists as he pours mirrors the way Savadai will teach him to heft a sword. Not as strange a comparison as it seems at first: both actions are born from duty. Savadai watches him out of the corner of his eye as he eats in measured bites, content to sit in companionable silence through the course of celery and mutton curry.

The singing starts after the last course has been cleared away by the serving women, and the ayrag has begun to freely flow.

The first two songs are inoffensive enough: old marching songs designed to keep rhythm on campaign. But the third song is about bedding and killing Seljuni women from the south. Temin’s mother’s people.

He expects Temin to bristle at the insult, or else blanch and turn to tears. But instead the boy listens, as still as a mountain pond, before turning to Savadai. “May I play lute for the men, uncle?”

Savadai raises an eyebrow but waves in assent.

Temin needs no more encouragement: he scampers over to the lute-stand in the corner, takes the instrument in hand, and cuts through the offending song with a strident cord. In the silence that follows, he begins to play the notes of a different song.

He picks the Mar-Uirakhai, the ancient lay of the founding of the steppes. Every child knows it. The soldiers join in, one by one, hesitant at first and then with greater enthusiasm, until they’re all of them singing at Temin’s command.

Savadai is impressed. He sees his admiration mirrored in the eyes of his captains and lieutenants, and something eases in his chest. The men will accept him, golden hair and all. Temin will make them.

***

Temin shows the same cleverness in the training grounds when Savadai puts him through his paces the next morning. He measures his skill with the sword, the bow, the javelin.

Temin manages to split his first arrow in half with his third in the center of the target from half the field away. He laughs with delight and smiles up at Savadai with wide abandon, the sky reflected a searing blue in his eyes.

He is beautiful.

Savadai stands frozen beside him. He feels with keen awareness and a sort of sinking horror the moment the first tendril of lust unfurls in his belly.

***

The dreams are as relentless as they are unwelcome.

It’s not that Savadai hasn’t dreamed of a youth’s beardless chin and firm thighs before. He has, many times.

He’s bedded his fair share of men over the years. There have been the eager lieutenants in his army, their bodies warm in his bedroll on cold marches. And there have been the diplomat’s sons in the far cities of the world, bedecked in silk and painted skin, with no language in common but the sultry sweep of eyes over skin. And there have been merchants and slaves, courtesans and whores, and everything in between.

If Temin weren’t his brother’s son, his king’s heir-

If Temin were any other youth-

but he isn’t.

And therein lies the problem

***

Savadai likes to consider himself a good soldier, and any good soldier is well-versed in the art of self-denial. It would have been easy enough to take the feelings and urges and confine them to the dark hours of the night, if only Temin hadn’t decided, with the infinite wisdom of a cocksure sixteen-year-old, that he felt the same way.

They’re sparring in the training grounds with blunted swords when Temin scores an unlucky hit on Savadai’s temple. Savadai goes down like a stone, but not before he sees the horror on Temin’s face. He waves away the boy’s concern- it stings, but nothing’s broken. Still, he knows better than to think Temin will let it lie. The boy is like a dog with a bone at times.

He’s resting in his room, fighting away his raging headache when he hears his door creep open. He listens as the door shuts again and Temin makes his way to the bed with quiet footfalls.  The mattress dips beside him.

“Nephew…” he croaks.

“Hush, uncle. I wished to see if you were well.”

“I am well. Go away.”

Even without opening his eyes he can tell Temin is rolling his eyes. “You are the color of curdled milk. And as it is my fault, the least I can do is aid in the healing.”

Gentle hands on his head, deft fingers weaving through his hair. “What-“

“A trick of my mother’s people. Hush,” Temin murmurs.

He should put a stop to this. He should pull away and send Temin out of the room. But perhaps the blow really has addled his brain, or perhaps Temin’s hands have some witchcraft in them- either way, he’s helpless. And Temin’s fingers know their craft well.

Temin plies at the points of pressure, alternating the pads of his fingers with the faintest graze of his nails in some strange alchemy of touch. He strokes at Savadai’s temples and kneads at his neck. Savadai melts beneath his attentions: the pain fades, and along with it all the little worries and tensions that one carries in one’s muscles without knowing it. And in the place of pain, pleasure.

He wishes he could say that the twitch in his breeches was a simple bodily reaction, having nothing to do with Temin. He knows that’s not true.

Temin pauses in his ministrations. “I could aide you with that as well, uncle.”

The honorific crashes over him like ice water, and he snaps his eyes open in horror. “Your father-“

Temin bites his lip, looking up at Savadai through his golden lashes. “My father isn’t here.”

But he is, in the line of Temin’s jaw and the set of his shoulders. In the way Temin looks at Savadai with unshakeable trust.

He swallows. “Leave.”

***

He abrogates Temin’s sword-work to one of his captains for the next span of days, claiming his head still hurts. He knows he’s a poor liar at the best of times; he doesn’t want to know what Temin will see in his face if he looks too carefully.

On the tenth day, Temin knocks on the door to his room.

Well, one can’t outrun every battle. He sits at his desk and massages his temples before leaning back in his chair. Best to get this over with as soon as possible. “Come in.”

Temin steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click before turning to face him.

Savadai gestures Temin forward so that he stands before his desk like a soldier brought in for review. Temin sees his petty plot for what it is and neatly sidesteps the desk, walking in clipped steps over to perch on the side of his bed. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

Gods, he had practiced what he was going to say; why was this so difficult? “I understand that it’s easy to admire one’s commanding officer-“

A slight laugh. “You think I admire you?”

“I think that you’re in the grips of a child’s infatuation. I don’t fuck children.”

Suddenly Temin is behind him, leaning against his back. “I would show you that I’m no child,” he whispers. His breath is scalding against the back of Savadai’s neck.

It takes every bit of restraint he has, but he manages to pull away. He fumbles a bag of coin from his desk drawer and hurls it at Temin’s chest like it’s a javelin. “Go buy a whore in the village and get this out of your blood.”

White-lipped, Temin leaves.

Savadai spends the evening hurling axes at a target while his aides exchange looks behind his back. Once the target collapses into kindling, he retreats into his bed and stares furiously at the wall as sleep eludes him.

Temin storms into his room the next morning.

There’s a bruise on his neck peeking out from behind his golden curls.

He tosses the empty coin purse on the desk like a challenge. “I called out your name when I spent.”

The dreams are worse that night.

***

A bow drawn too tight will eventually snap.

It’s not what Savadai expects its going to be. It’s not a training session gone wrong, or giddy feelings at a feast bubbled over.

A routine scouting patrol runs into a nest of Oitari bandits in the hills beneath the pass. Savadai’s men are better trained and outfitted, but the bandits are wild and mean with the desperation of men with nothing to lose. When the dust clears, twelve of his riders are dead.

Savadai isn’t on the patrol. Temin is.

The riders pound into the courtyard in a confusion of cursing and blood. Savadai hears his aide telling him what happened, naming the casualties-

But he’s hardly listening; his heart is in his throat as his eyes rove over the chaos of men and horses, needing to see that golden hair. And for a moment Savadai doesn’t see him, and everything goes cold and brittle.

But there- Temin’s towards the back, riding his horse steadily, with naught but a thin line of blood marring one cheek. Relief washes over him.

And even with all that has passed between them, he cannot help but rush to Temin’s side. Savadai’s weakness has never been that he cared for the boy too little, after all. “Nephew, please- Are you well?”

But Temin pulls away from him. “I’m fine. Uncle,” he grits out. And with that he’s urging his horse away, heading stable with a posture that’s a bit too stiff but is otherwise nothing to be concerned about.

The mood in the hall that night is somber. It is a proud tradition to send off the dead with as much ayrag as any of the men can stomach.

Savadai drinks, and he doesn’t pay attention. He doesn’t see that, for all Temin is well in body, is not well in other, deeper ways. And so he is utterly unprepared when Temin staggers up to him in full view of the rest hall and kisses him.

And if he were sharper he would have seen the wildness in Temin’s eyes- and if he were wiser he would have realized that Temin had just seen a man die for the first time, had faced death and seen how quickly it could steal the ones he loves away.

Savadai will lie awake for months and wonder what he could have done differently in that moment, if it would have changed anything. But he cannot change the past.

He shoves Temin away with all his strength. “Nephew, you are not yourself,” he says, letting his voice carry. “Cease this foolishness.”

But Temin laughs, a cracked and broken sound. “Foolishness? You think I have not seen you watch me too?”

There is a crowd gathering around them.

Savadai cannot help the panic that burbles up within him. This is everything he wanted to avoid. Every bit of stymied attraction, every dream he’d quashed on waking- it had all been to prevent this.

His men will not let him lead if they think he has sullied the king’s child. And worse- they will not follow Temin as king if they believe he has been so debased.

Temin has a wild look about him, eyes blown wide. “Uncle-“

This has gone far enough. He turns and pulls his sword from its sheath with unsteady hands. “Draw.”

For the first time there is uncertainty on Temin’s face. “Uncle, I-“

“You wish to be a man? Then act like one! Defend yourself!”

But Temin is shaking his head; his whole body is shaking, quaking like wheat in the wind. “Uncle-“

“I am not your uncle!” Savadai swings his sword down in anger and confusion and shame. Straight down- not at Temin. Indeed, it would not have hit Temin at all- had not the boy reached out to him.

He’s lucky, all things considered. He catches Temin’s wrist with the flat of the blade, not the edge. He doesn’t break the skin at all.

Instead he hears the sound of Temin’s wrist breaking, clean like the snap of a flower stem. He knows with horrifying clarity that he’ll be replaying that sound in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Temin falls like a stone, an unvoiced gasp shearing from his lips. The sword falls from Savadai’s slack fingers, clattering onto the floor. The noise is a jarred ill-omen amidst the silence of the onlooking crowd.

His own panting is suddenly deafening in his ears. He turns and retreats- it is not running away, it is _not-_

He cannot help but look back, just once. Temin’s face is white with pain as he clutches his wrist. He stares at Savadai like he’s a stranger.

Savadai flees.

***

Temin leaves for the capital the next morning.

Savadai retreats into punishing patrols that strip the flesh from his bones and have even the most zealous of his captains casting worried glances at him.

His brother sends a letter a span of weeks later, couched in formal terms that belie his dissatisfaction with Savadai’s dismissal of his son and heir. The prince has arrived back in the capital, hale and hearty despite some trouble with his arm. A fall while riding, perhaps. Temin has duly expressed his gratefulness for Savadai’s tutelage. It seems a shame that such a mutually beneficial arrangement had to be called off. Would the wise general reconsider?

Savadai snorts into his ayrag and tosses the gilded parchment into his brazier. He has no patience for the shock and awe of kingship, not when he can remember Khortun falling off his first pony a lifetime ago. He drags a piece of skin from his trunk, pens a reply with his own curt hand. He’s taught the boy all he can. If you want to know what happened, have one of your damnable diviners drag it out of a crow’s guts, for all I care. Or drag your son up in front of the court and beat the answer out of him if you haven’t gone too soft to lift a sword. He blows the ink dry and shoves it in the hand of the shock-faced messenger before going back to his ayrag.

The king does not reply that summer, nor in the grey-skied fall that follows. And so Savadai slinks back into his routine of days of hard riding and nights of cold silence, until the glance of light off golden hair and the strum of lute strings in the dark seems more like a memory with each passing day.

And then the king dies.

***

The news comes in the talons of a grey-winged dove, on the edge of winter and in the middle of the night. Savadai is sleeping amid fitful dreams in the loneliness of his chamber when his aide bursts in, slamming the door against the wall with a bang in his haste.

“Sir-“

He jolts up, takes in the boy’s whitened lips and the wild look in his eyes. An attack on the garrison? An avalanche from the upper peaks?

And then he sees the scroll dangling from the aide’s fingers, notices the white mourning seal wrapped around it. “There was- there was a hunting accident. The King…” The aide swallows, stares resolutely at a crack in the wall just past Savadai’s head. “It was quick. There was nothing they could do.”

It hits him like a waking dream, the sort where time slips into cold honey and every move of your limbs is too slow, too late. If he musters the troops now, if he rides his horses through day and night, into a froth-mouthed frenzy, if he rides faster than the fastest silver falcon-

He will still be too late to make any difference at all.

He stumbles from his cot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he gropes blindly from a dressing robe. The flagstones of his chamber are icy against his feet. Outside, rain lashes against the tower; he flinches with each beat of water on rock.

A memory seizes him, unbidden and wholly unhelpful: Khortun sitting with him on the edge of a blue-tiled fountain in the palace, pointing out their reflections in the water. He had reached in with the pudgy fingers of a child, tried to lift Khortun’s face out in his cupped hands. But the water had slipped out through his fingers over and over and over again, dashing into bright puddles on the tile.

“Sir…”

He blinks at the aide, wavering in the doorway. So young. Barely older than Temin.

Temin.

He breathes in and out, imagines the cold of winter settling into his limbs. Everything bleeds away, until he feels like a skeleton of iron and ice in place of a man. And just like that, he knows what needs to be done. “Fetch all the troop movement requisitions we have.”

The aide frowns. “Sir? Wouldn’t a eulogy be-“

And it’s not an aide’s place to question his orders, and he’s halfway to screaming at the boy that what does it matter, his brother is dead- but Temin needs him calm, and so calm he will be. He takes a deep breath, ties the wrap of his robe with careful fingers still numbed by sleep. “We need to know where the other armies are.”

Understanding dawns on the boy’s face, followed by a shock of horror. He sketches a hasty bow and retreats out into the corridor, leaving Savadai alone with thoughts he can’t afford to have.

***

He has his captains roused and herded into his war room. By the time he goes to meet them his face is calm as the surface of a mountain lake, and just as cold. No one greets him as he steps through the door and takes his place at the head of the table. Everywhere he looks he sees grim mirrors of his own face. His captains have heard the news. They know how wars begin.

“You have heard, I trust, that the king is dead. Whispers and murmured prayers.  Savadai does not allow himself to listen to any of it. Instead, he leans forward and spreads out his map of the steppes on the table, weighing down the four corners with smooth river stones. The parchment is well worn, but the artist that picked out the mountains and rivers of his homeland had known her art well, and the lines still shine brightly despite the wear of twenty years of hard campaigning. The map had been a gift from Khortun, on the eve of his first command. “Use it well, little brother. So you may know where I am and how far you are from me.”

With a shuddered breath he slams down a red pebble on the paper, marking his army’s camp on the map. “Read the reports,” he barks.

His aide shuffles the papers into a stack and clears his throat. “Red army: Two companies south to lake Mandulai,” he says, glancing up at Savadai over the top of the papers. “Green army: five companies east through the Bavalan Pass and east to Oshrusand. Yellow Army…”

He marks each company with a painted pebble, steadfastly refusing to look at the picture they’re painting. The murmurs of his captains are damning enough.

But then the last report is read and his aide falls silent, and there’s nothing else Savadai can do but confront the picture before him. He leans back in his stool and stares down at the pebbles, grouped in five clusters across the sprawling steppes. The White and Yellow armies of the prince and the late king: in the southern reaches of the steppes. His own Red army: crowded in the corner of the map, ringed on three sides by ice. And between him and Temin: the Green and Blue forces of the Eastern and Western Dukes, perennial thorns in the side of every king since unification. Camped together, a stone’s throw from the capital.

He cannot help it: he lets his head fall into his hand as he slams his other fist down against the wood of the table, sending the colored stones flying into a haphazard mosaic on the floor.

***

The ride to the capital is five days. He sets a punishing pace, one that has his men gaunt faced and his horses laved in sweat.

His forces clear the mountains just after dawn on the fifth day. In the distance he can see it: the glint of light off the mirrored chimes of the temples, the wave of prayer flags between the towers of the walls, the gold of the palace spires spearing up into the thin blue air. He can small the mint of the gardens and the lamb roasting in the markets as hints on the mountain wind.

In the distance, the city beckons. He feels his heart buoy, dares to remember Temin’s fingers graceful over the strings of the lute.

A shout from the sentry, a shudder as the whole of the army’s progress grinds to a halt. He picks his horse to the front of the column, heart in his throat. For the Bavalan pass is blocked by a bristling sea of spears, all decked out in flags of Green and Blue.

***

He sends an emissary with polite greetings and an invitation to tea, because all appearances to the contrary, they are not at war with each other yet.

The generals of the Green and Blue armies meet him in a tent made of crimson silk just before night. The dying sun sets the fabric alight, as if the walls of the tent are burning or bleeding or both.

General Boru, general of the Green army, is a blunt boor of a man. Savadai has had the dubious honor of sitting beside him at two victory feasts, and regrets he had failed to drown out the memories of Boru’s lecherous boasting with drink. He is dangerous in the way a bull is dangerous.

General Erlaghan, however. He has a handsome face and a proud bearing. His silks are of the finest weave, and his armor is polished bright, but not so bright that Savadai cannot see the hard-won gashes of sword and arrow that score the surface. He is quiet where Boru is boastful, gracious where Boru is coarse. A dangerous man.

Erlaghan watches Savadai watching him and offers him a small smile from behind the lip of his teacup. “We are honored you have come, General. Your reputation precedes you.”

He looks away; Gods, but he was not made for times like these. “Does my reputation speak of treachery?”

Boru scoffs. “Treachery! We are no traitors; the boy is no true king.”

He clenches his teeth. Erlaghan notices it; Boru does not. “He is Khortun’s oldest son.”

Boru waves the concern away as one might a fly. “The son of a Seljuni witch. They say she seduced Khortun with dark rituals and strange herbs in his tea. And they say the boy takes after his mother in more than just his looks.”

“One sees so little of our beloved Khortun in the boy that one might be forgiven for wondering if his mother strayed from the king’s bed,” Erlaghan adds.

He cannot help the thinning of his lips, and Boru titters into his tea in response. “Does the honor of the boy so concern you?”

It will not help Temin if he draws his short sword and slices Boru’s neck open but the thought is tempting anyway. He forces a casual roll of his shoulders. “The honor of my house concerns me.”

Erlaghan shoots a quelling look at Boru and reaches out to lay a hand on Savadai’s arm in what would be a convincing display of concern if Savadai didn’t know better. “Then you should be at ease, for we have no quarrel with your house. The line of Marakhai is old and noble, and we would be poor vassals indeed if we wished it any harm. Indeed, we wish to save the steppes from this foreign rot that has beset it. We are not your enemy, General.”

Savadai times his pause, calculates the waver in his voice. Gods, but he hates doing this. “The steppes still need a king.”

Erlaghan’s eyes gleam with the hunger of a bird that has begun its killing dive. “And they shall have one. Our beloved Khortun had other children- we thought Sorkhun to be a good choice. He is in good health, and his mother was a good steppe woman of the Andukhai Clan.”

And of course Sorkhun is six years old and has no pesky ideas about peace with the south, or about anything but his toy soldiers, honey buns, and his pet pony.

Savadai watches Erlaghan watch him. They would have him march at their side, then. And he would have to face Temin and see his betrayal reflected in Temin’s eyes.

What is gained; what is lost? To be gained: gold and jewels and all those other glittering trappings of power. Not to mention his life; if he turns down this offer Erlaghan and Boru will not allow him to return to his troops. His men are outnumbered two to one here, and the cold earth of the mountain passes is a lonely place for a body to rest. His men deserve better than that.

And as for what is lost? Just a boy with golden hair and dreams of a better future. Lost? Temin was never his to begin with.

He clears the lump from his throat, forces himself to meet Erlaghan’s beady eyes. “It seems,” he says, “that you will have need for a regent.” The words taste like ash in his mouth.

***

He rides at Erlaghan’s right hand to meet Temin on the eve of the battle.

The slight stilling of Temin’s features is the only reaction he gets to his betrayal. There is no screaming or shouted accusations or rage filled glances- just Temin, stony faced and still as a statue. Savadai almost wishes it were different, that he could feel the heat of Temin’s wrath. All he feels now is cold.

He lets Erlaghan do the talking. There is posturing and very polite insinuations of a very impolite nature. He doesn’t hear any of it.

At last Erlaghan leans back in his saddle and lets out an exaggerated sigh of regret. “It seems there can be no peace, then. May the gods grant you mercy.”

As they ride away from the meeting, Savadai can feel Temin’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

***

The gods take a dim view of civil war. The day of the battle dawns with rain pouring down from the heavens like judgement.

Erlaghan takes the center of the field, relegating Boru and Savadai to the left and right flanks, respectively.

Savadai listens through the storm as Erlaghan’s horn sounds and the men begin their charge through the mud of the field. His orders are clear: follow Erlaghan’s lead and charge Temin’s forces, pinning them between the armies like a boar pinned by hunters’ javelins.

He hesitates. Betrayal is a sin before the gods. Well. It won’t be the first time, at least.

He turns to his captain and gives the order, lets it travel down the line. And then they’re charging, not at Temin’s men but in a wedge into the side of Erlaghan’s forces.

Chaos. Screams. The cries of the horses and the crunch of steel on bone. And above it all, the rain.

***

The blood is hot on his skin. Beneath it, everything is cold. The first arrow- how many are there- is agony in the meat of his shoulder. He stumbles like a drunk man.

He could sleep a thousand years, if he just lay down- but no. He needs to find Temin.

He stumbles for an age as time slides by like shifting sand. There- golden hair glinting in the sun.

The sun is out. The rain has stopped. He falls to his knees in the mud.

“Temin,” he croaks, and is that his voice? It sounds so impossibly far away, like an echo on the mountains.

“Temin,” he says again. And tosses Erlaghan’s head forward, watches mesmerized as it bounces before settling still, eyes wide open and unseeing beneath the brilliance of the clearing skies.

A pair of white doeskin boots steps forward, places a heel against Erlaghan’s temple and pushes it so that the eyes fall closed.

Savadai lets himself fall forward into a low obeisance. The mud is cool against his forearms. “My king,” he murmurs. The shoes step closer. In the distance, trumpets.

***

Awakening is a battle fought in stages: Savadai grasps some bit of consciousness, only to fall back into sleep as he turns his head on the pillow. He tosses through his dreams like a ship on a far ocean: there are fever-churned nightmares of blood interspersed with a terrible numb silence.

_“Uncle, please-“_

He wakes to birdsong.

The light pours through grilles of the window, painting the sandstone in honeyed tones. He feels the sunshine in his fingers and toes: a delicious warmth that wraps about him like a blanket. His eyelids are heavy. Poppy, then.

“You are awake.”

Temin has eschewed the bedside stool to lean against the wall of the chamber. He’s robed in scarlet; Khortun’s old circlet winks at his temples.

Savadai feels tears prick at his eyes. The gods are just. He can die with honor now.

Beneath the crown, Temin’s face is a mask. He is silent for a beat before stepping closer and perching himself on the foot of the bed. “When did you decide to betray them?”

He thinks about lying. But then, he could never keep anything from Temin. Why start now? “As soon as they asked me to join them.”

Temin considers this, swirls it around in his mouth like he’s tasting a fine ale. “My advisors tell me I should execute you.”

He feels a bit of relief at that; at least Temin has wise men at his side. “You should.”

“Why?” Temin is tilting his head like Savadai is a fascinating puzzle to be solved.

Savadai coughs. “I’m a rival claimant to your throne. I’m thrice treacherous: I’ve betrayed my king and my blood both by taking arms up against you. I’ve turned against my brothers in arms on the battlefield. I am utterly without honor. You would be worse than a fool to keep me alive.”

He intended the words to inflame. But Temin only watches him with those pale eyes of his. At last he leans back, nods to himself as if he’s deciphered some message from the gods in the mess of Savadai’s words. “You’re afraid.”

He hacks out a laugh. “Of death? Hardly, I-“

“-of me.”

Savadai feels himself go very still. “My king, I-“

“-am I? Your king?”

“Of course.” He means it with every fiber of his being. He would mean it even if Temin orders him to fall on his sword this very instant.

He sees the knowledge reflected in Temin’s eyes as he leans down and rests a hand on Savadai’s chest. “I could command you to attend me,” he says slowly. “I could command you to come to my chambers and sink to your knees for me. I could ask you to act out every fantasy I indulged of you, every depraved dream.”

Savadai’s mouth is very dry. “You could.”

“I could order you to do anything. And you would do it.”

He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I order you to live.”

His eyes fly open. “My king, I don’t deserve-“

“Why?” Temin’s eyes flash. “Because you won a war for me? Because you gave up your honor to save my life? Because you broke my heart?”

He feels the words like a self-inflicted blow. “That was not- that was not my intent.”

Temin sighs. There is pain in his voice, but it’s no longer a child’s pain. “I know.” He shakes his head, as if waking from a dream. “Rest. Heal. You can serve as my general when you can stand on your own again.”

He could murmur some variant of “as the king wishes” and go back to sleep. Temin would accept that. It would suffice.

Life is too short for sufficiency.

“And if…” he swallows. “And if I wished to serve you in other ways as well?”

For once Temin has no words. And then he laughs, and it sounds like sun breaking out from behind the clouds. “Rest. Heal.”

“And after?” Savadai presses; he has been to bold to back down now.

“After,” Temin agrees, and his smile is better than any victory Savadai has ever won.


End file.
